


A Country Haunting

by goseaward



Category: Simon Feximal Series - K. J. Charles
Genre: Case Fic, Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28121463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goseaward/pseuds/goseaward
Summary: Robert and Simon take a holiday in the north of England.
Relationships: Robert Caldwell/Simon Feximal
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A Country Haunting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [butterflymind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflymind/gifts).



> butterflymind, I can't tell you how excited I was to see your list of prompts--it was what I wanted to write, but _better_.
> 
> With immense thanks to Vae for the beta and Britpick. All remaining errors are my own.

A few years after we met, Simon and I spent Christmas on our own in a hunting box in Northumberland. We had been given the loan of it after the unusual case involving haunted stables that I later recounted in the second Casebook. The owner of the property insisted we take a holiday there as part of his thanks to us. Simon and I were not much used to holidays, between his calling and my general lack of funds, so it was novel to have two whole weeks ahead of us with nothing to do. 

The journey up had not been the easiest hours on a train I had ever spent, even apart from the sheer length of time required to get us from London to northern England and then the necessary connections to two more trains to take us from the coast to the interior. Our host had arranged a carriage to take us from the station to the house itself. Like most buildings described as a hunting box by the aristocracy, it was a large and comfortable building of many rooms, and it bore the entirely predictable name of "Blue Lodge", as it was blue, and it was a lodge. We had arranged for a local woman to come by twice a week for housekeeping and cooking, and she had clearly been by to light the fires in the main living spaces and the two largest bedrooms, but her next visit was still three days hence. Faced with warm, clean rooms in a house by ourselves after a tiresome journey with no time for privacy, we washed off the dirt from our journey and promptly engaged in a number of interesting activities that required us to wash again once we were done.

Once we were again properly dressed, we made a more thorough examination of the house and determined that the rooms were comfortably furnished with a more than adequate number of cushions and blankets so we could lounge against the winter chill, much colder here than we were used to in London. There was even a lovely Christmas decoration of evergreens and holly berries on the mantel in the sitting room. We found the kitchen well-stocked for two bachelors. I prepared us a small meal of bread, cheese, and cold ham, with thick slices of fruitcake to finish, and we ate quickly and then scrubbed the plates before retiring to the sitting room. I am happy to report that I managed to convince Simon that it would be warmer if we shared a blanket on the same piece of furniture, and before long I had my lover draped against me, warm and heavy and adored. Somewhat less fortunately, he fell almost instantly to sleep.

He roused long enough for us to go to bed, and then rose long before me the following morning. I was charmed to discover, once I ventured out for breakfast, that he had found and added some ivy leaves to the Christmas display in the sitting room.

"Have you thought of what you'd like to do today?" I asked as I joined him at the breakfast table. Simon had put together two plates of scrambled eggs to beat back the chill. They were underseasoned and somewhat lumpy, but since warmth was their most important quality, I was well pleased with the meal.

"What does one do in the country?" Simon said.

I understood Simon to be asking for input on a decision, rather than being ignorant of the options. Simon and I were both city folk by nature, although Simon's work took him into the country far more often than mine, a fact which he never failed to mention when I did not know something. I was so frequently the one of us who knew more about ordinary people and their habits that it gave him a great deal of pleasure, I think, to be able to explain something to me that I did not know, about something other than the occult. He certainly did not need me to tell him what people got up to outside London. "I suppose it depends on who one asks," I said. "Many people hunt; I am not inclined to."

"Nor I," Simon said. I could not tell if this was a joke.

"We could go on a long rambling walk. I believe the less kind among our fellows would say it is also traditional to get very drunk and then have intimate relations with the livestock. There is also the village to visit; I am sure they have at least a tavern. Or we could simply sit and enjoy the house."

"Well," Simon said. "I am not fond of strong drink, and you are more convenient than the livestock." This was definitely a joke. "A long walk, then."

* * *

We set off after I had finished digesting my meal. We had both brought what we thought would be adequate clothing for winter weather, but neither of us was fully prepared for just how deep the chill was. Thankfully, we found that a small trunk in the gun room containing a variety of scarves, gloves, hats, and so on, and we attired ourselves appropriately before venturing out of doors. Simon had found a dashing green scarf, and I admired him as we set off down the path into the woods. It was a bright winter morning, clear skies with the sun glittering off the snow sharp enough to blind us. Neither of us was a particular naturalist, but we amused ourselves pointing out unusual bushes to each other, or the tracks of some animal. Simon knew a little more than I, as certain plants had occult resonances used in his work.

"I wonder if men made this path, or if it used to be a deer track or some such," I said.

"It has been in use for many years, either way," Simon said.

"How do you know that?"

"It feels like an old path." Simon looked around us, observing the conformation of the land. "Such old paths can act as barriers to ghosts, or points of entry to the World Beneath the World, depending on the kind of ghost or the kind of summoner. One learns to identify them."

"Are there any near our home?" I asked.

"Not near our home, no. I believe a few of the old ox-tracks that have now been absorbed into the city proper retain some of their magical potential, but for the most part, London is a city of men, making and remaking itself in every new century. The bones are still there, but they have been moved and changed by the layers on top of them."

This was all getting a bit gloomy for me. "I see some red berries over there," I said, gesturing to a tree just off the path, bright against the snow. "Do you know if they're edible?"

"That's holly, Robert," Simon said with some amusement.

"Oh, is it?"

"You don't recognise it?"

"I don't usually see it all together like that."

Simon glanced at me with his eyebrows raised. "Shall I tell Cornelia not to decorate with holly next year? I would not want you eating something poisonous because it came from a larger bunch of leaves than normal."

"I don't eat the decorations," I said. "That's not what they're for."

"All right, you may keep the holly."

"And if we decide to go gleaning, you're in charge."

"We have a perfectly well-stocked kitchen. We do not need to poison ourselves for recreation." He looked amused, with a mischievous glint in his eye. If we had been somewhere more remote, or on a straight path instead of a meandering one, I might have kissed him then, surrounded by snowy moorland on all sides, with a smile on his lips and the sun shining down. But as it was, I was more than content to be walking by his side, there in the quiet, wintry landscape of Northumberland.

The path led us past the occasional cottage or farm. Most had a curl of smoke or other signs of life, though we saw few people until we had walked perhaps two miles. There, a youth was lurking near the gate to a small cottage. The cottage itself looked prosperous, well-repaired and with the outlines of vegetable plots and a pen for livestock visible under the layer of snow, and the youth looked healthy and well-fed. He greeted us as we approached, and we made similar noises. Then he said, "Are you the priest?"

He was looking at Simon as he said this. Of the two of us, Simon was undoubtedly the more priestly, with his grey hair, solemn and fierce demeanour, and the bearing of a man with an important calling. I had thought to myself, more than once, that he had a priestly air. Still, this was the first time I had witnessed him being truly mistaken for a man of the cloth. I struggled, I hope successfully, to constrain my amusement, thinking not only of Simon's ghost-hunting but the exceedingly unpriestly activities we engaged in quite regularly.

"No," Simon said.

"Is everything all right?" I asked, and Simon cast me a quick glance, and then looked at the youth with more interest. This was before I had fully come to trust my sense of a story, but Simon already called it invaluable, and I suppose the fact that I asked a question made this seem like more than a chance meeting.

"Oh, well," the youth said.

I internally congratulated him on completely avoiding the question. Simon said, "Is he coming here for last rites?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that."

"Baptism, then."

"No. It's nothing, sir, I'm sorry to have troubled you."

"Not a priest you know?" I said, and this time they both swung to look at me. "You asked if he was the priest. If you were waiting for your local clergyman, you'd already know him, wouldn't you?"

The youth was looking increasingly uncomfortable under our questioning, which made Simon look increasingly satisfied.

"We're not local. Do not worry, we won't tell anyone the secret. The thing you're afraid of telling us," I said, leadingly.

"He's an exorcist, sir."

Ah. Simon and I exchanged a look. Most exorcists were entirely useless; those that were effective were oftenin the vein of Dr. Berry. "Perhaps we could help," I said. "My name is Robert Caldwell, and this is Mr. Simon Feximal, the ghost hunter."

* * *

After our explanations, the youth disappeared into the house to discuss the matter with his parents. He eventually returned and beckoned us inside.

The family were called the Robsons. The cottage, while as neat and well-kept inside as out, was somewhat crowded with the Robsons' large family. There were the parents and seven children: the eldest boy, Theodore, called Teddy, who had met us at the gate; five girls; and then another boy. The baby boy was very new indeed, less than a week old, and—according to the Robsons—the source of their latest trouble. Since his birth, he had been followed by spine-chilling screams, unnerving thumping noises, loud moans...all the usual signs of a haunting. Their parish priest had refused to deal with the case in any way, blaming the family for the problem, and had at last been prevailed upon to send for an exorcist. Obviously a cruel manner of behaviour, but it was causing the family real pain, in addition to the fright. We quickly established that the haunting was merely spiritual, and no one had been physically harmed. This made things somewhat easier; the family was too large to easily remove to another property, and Mr. and Mrs. Robson said, with some tremulousness, that they could handle the effects as long as their children were not in any danger. In fact, they seemed relieved to hear our judgement that it was safe to stay.

The exorcist was due to arrive that day, and Teddy had been dispatched to the gate to await his arrival. Once we were introduced to the family, he resumed his position outside. This was quite motivating: the more quickly we could alleviate the haunting, the more likely we'd avoid the need for the exorcist altogether. We assured the family that we would not require any payment for our work, and sat down to ask the necessary questions.

How soon after the birth had the haunting commenced? Immediately. Had the character of the manifestations been consistent? Yes: the screaming, thumping, and moaning had all appeared within the first day. Was there any speech or any writing on mirrors? No. None at all? No, or nothing that the family could understand. Had they seen any apparitions? No. Had they ever experienced a haunting before?

At this question, Mr. and Mrs. Robson exchanged a glance. Mrs. Robson said, at last, "Sometimes we heard strange noises. But with so many people, we were never quite sure."

"I told you that thumping wasn't me," said one of the girls, and both adults immediately looked her way. She sat back, frowning. I liked her spirit.

"How long have you lived in the house?" Simon asked.

"Eight years," Mr. Robson said. "We inherited it when my father died. George is named for him."

This was the first time they had said the baby's name, and a brief, low, heartrending wail sounded throughout the house. I reflected on how strange my life had become that I listened with an educated ear, comparing the sound to previous disembodied wails I had heard throughout my years with Simon. Of course, writing this at some remove, my pride at my three years' experience seems rather overstated, but I did feel it at the time. On the other hand, the Robsons all hunched against the noise, oppressed.

"He died here?" I asked. They nodded. "Do you know if there were any other deaths on the property?"

"It's an old family home. My grandparents. Their parents, at a guess."

"Did any of them share a name with the baby?" Simon said. I noticed that he avoided saying the name, as I had also decided to do.

"No. He was named for my grandmother's side."

A family tradition, then. Simon nodded. "Can you tell us anything about your father, Mr. Robson?"

Just then, we were interrupted by Teddy at the door, trailed by a thin, friendly-looking man about ten years older than myself. The dog collar marked him immediately as the priest, and I marvelled that he was walking around in the chill without a scarf. Dedication to one's profession indeed. "Mr. Robson, Mrs. Robson," he began, and then spotted Simon and me sitting at the table. "Well met, Mr. Feximal!"

I watched with some astonishment as Simon inclined his head. "Father John."

Introductions were made all around, and Father John explained that he and Simon had had a similar run-in some fifteen years previously, when Simon was just beginning his career. Simon is not an easy man to read, but I could tell he was not displeased that this was the exorcist who had been called, and his lack of distaste allowed me to relax. I would certainly be questioning him later, however. Though Mr. Robson immediately stood to offer his chair, Father John joined the children on the floor, allowing the toddler girl to crawl into his lap. Simon and I, who share a distant fondness of young children and also a lack of knowledge about their proper treatment, shared a glance of mutual relief that the new member of the party would be able to question them in our place.

Simon summarised the previous minutes' questioning for Father John, saving Mr. and Mrs. Robson from having to repeat the tale. Father John removed a pencil and a small journal from his overcoat and began to take notes. (Simon and I shared a habit at that time of writing down any important information only once the interviews had concluded, although I will admit, in my later years, that like Father John I had to take notes in situ, or else risk losing some important piece of information that fled my mind.) Having reached the end, Simon turned again to the Robsons and said, "Tell us about your father, Mr. Robson."

The following tale had hallmarks that I had learnt to read over the years, and that Simon likely recognised from sad experience. Mr. Robson praised his father's strict discipline and rigorous standards, while Mrs. Robson looked miserable and a little angry. A malicious man can easily make a malicious ghost, and I was grateful, watching Mrs. Robson's face as she thought of her deceased father-in-law, that the spirit was not powerful enough to do physical harm. The grave expression on Father John's face said he had come to the same conclusions.

Father John then questioned the children, who confirmed that they had not come to any harm, though they were clearly quite frightened by the events in their home. With a rather extended countryside farewell, all three of us took our leave, Father John to prepare for his rituals, the first of which was set to take place that afternoon, and Simon and I to return home for discussion and the reading of the runes.

* * *

"You are not worried about Father John performing an exorcism?" I asked as we walked back towards our lodgings.

"No," Simon said. "It will be showy, and impressive, and entirely ineffectual."

I had guessed as much. "He does not seem much like an exorcist." I had not met many, but Father John lacked the fire-and-brimstone certainty of the others or of Dr. Berry. I rather wanted to feed Father John hot tea and biscuits.

"I gather he took on the mantle of his mentor. I suspect he does far more good by bringing comfort than any exorcist ever does by the removal of a haunting."

"You like him," I said, and then: "You like him. And he is...like us."

"Yes." Simon looked over at me with some amusement. "Are you jealous, Robert?"

"No. Merely curious." There was not much of possessiveness between us. We were partners in everything, and both very secure in our positions in each other's lives.

Simon smiled at me. He rarely did, and I treasured each one. "He takes his vows very seriously." I continued to look at him, mirroring his smile, and he finally said, "To my disappointment, at the time."

"We are not very much alike," I observed.

"You and I?"

"Father John and I."

"Ah," Simon said. "Do you not think so?"

"You think we look similar?" I asked, surprised.

"Oh, in appearance," Simon said. "No, not very much."

"Are we alike in other ways?"

Simon reflected upon this question. "You are both kind," he said finally.

With the excuse of a slippery patch of snow on the path, I slid my arm into Simon's. "I see," I said. "So, the very first night we met, you were not overcome with lust because of the perfection of my physical form, but because I was...kind?"

"Yes," Simon said.

I was astonished; this had been a jest. "Really?"

"Of course. Most men are enraged by the kind of haunting you were experiencing."

We had a large number of examples to the contrary, but, I reflected, a surplus of examples in support as well. "For the sake of clarity, while I like your personality very much, Simon, that very first night was certainly because of your physical form. And how you use it," I added hastily.

"I will bear that in mind," Simon said. Then: "Your physical form was not...unimportant."

"Oh, I see. Mr. Simon Feximal, overcome by base lusts after all."

"Overcome by your reprehensible ancestor, I believe."

I laughed, and we walked on.

* * *

Once we had arrived back at the Blue Lodge, Simon went upstairs to read the runes in the looking-glass. He left me in the kitchen to prepare a meal; I think this was because I had taken the mood of our walk and bid fair to distract him from his task if I saw him with his clothes off, and he well knew it.

He reappeared some minutes later, and I set a plate in front of him. I allowed him a few minutes to eat before I asked what he had seen.

"The ghost is unhappy with the name, as I think you guessed," Simon said. "It says that George does not deserve it."

"Ah," I said. This did not sit quite right with me and the story I had built in my head of an angry grandfather. There were many reasons I could think of to dislike one's name being used for a baby, but worth?

"It seems like a fast judgement on a newborn babe," Simon said, echoing my thoughts.

"I agree."

"Did the ghost say anything else?"

"Some things about forgetting," Simon said, "and occasionally, for some reason, Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas?"

"Indeed."

"Well, that doesn't seem to fit at all," I said. "But...forgetting. That might be something. Who would be forgetting, and why would that matter?"

"Something about the elder George, most likely."

I nodded. "So...when they say he doesn't deserve it..."

"The elder George doesn't deserve having a namesake, you think?"

"I do."

"That is excellent, Robert," Simon said. "We should talk with the family again. We ought to ask them more about him. Who might have died in the house, and had a grudge."

"Yes," I said. "But tomorrow. I am not in the mood to see an exorcism today."

"Ah, yes. Tomorrow."

* * *

That evening, we set out for the village. In the summer it would have been a pleasant half hour's walk; it took us somewhat longer given the snow. The lantern threw beautiful yellow shadows on the trees and the lane as we walked.

We quickly found the pub, hot and damp and welcome for it after the chill outside. We were immediately identified as the visitors at the Blue Lodge by the locals. I suppose that was easy, as we were the only people _not_ locals, and we had arrived on foot. I secured us a spot at a table with the chattiest men while Simon ordered a pint for each of us.

"Robert Caldwell," I said to the question, "and over there is my friend, Mr. Simon Feximal."

The first Casebook was already out in those days, and, to our luck, one of the men at the table had already read it. He quickly introduced himself as another Robert, Robert Hedley, and made himself the representative of the crowd for all our questions. I did not wish to give away the Robsons' business, but as soon as I mentioned we had met the family and were curious about the previous owner of the house, all the men at the table nodded in satisfaction. "Thought you might be here for that," Hedley said. "We're supposed to be getting an exorcist too."

"He's already here," I said. "We met him this morning." I was treated with all the attention due someone with novel information in a small town. "Father John—I'm afraid I didn't catch his last name. Mr. Feximal has worked with him before."

"When's the exorcism?" another man asked.

Not wanting to cause trouble—or a crowd—for the Robsons, I demurred that I did not know his exact schedule. Simon joined us and placed a pint in front of me, and I covered with a draught of the passable ale while the conversation moved on.

"You wanted to know about old George Robson?" Hedley said. I nodded. "One doesn't like to speak ill of the dead," he continued, with the air of one who enjoyed that sort of thing very much, "but it's good for everyone he's dead and gone." Heads nodded around the table. "A fouler temper you'd never meet. Hard man to do business with, you'd think you'd settled on a fair price and then he was shouting his fool head off about being robbed."

"How did he behave with his son?" I asked.

"Oh, well, Peter—he's the eldest—a fine boy, fine man now," said Hedley, who could be hardly ten years older than Mr. Robson himself. "Strong and fair. Never could do anything right for old George, no. Everything was too slow or too fast, too sloppy or not done thoroughly enough, and never with proper respect."

"Complained about him, too, to the rest of us, even though we could all see Peter was worth a hundred of George," another man chimed in.

"Maura convinced Peter to move to Newcastle when they were married, and we didn't see him again until old George died."

Curious that the Robsons would name the boy after this man, but I suppose he was still Peter's father, even if the town didn't think much of him. "Did he get on well with the rest of the family, then? Was it just Peter he had trouble with?"

Hedley tipped his head side to side, a gesture of ambivalence as prevalent, I supposed, in the countryside as in the city. "The other children didn't have it easy, but none so bad as Peter. He never had a harsh word for his wife."

"God rest her soul," said one of the onlookers, echoed by most of the crowd.

"Was he so hot-tempered all his life?" Simon asked, the first words he'd spoken except in greeting. The crowd fell silent; I wasn't sure if it was his reputation or merely his stentorian tones.

"Yes," said an older man. "He used to fight with me in the schoolroom. He and his brother had it out two, three times a week."

"What kinds of fights?" I asked.

"What do any children fight about? Someone looked at him funny. I don't know."

"Nothing specific?"

Simon gave me a short but significant look. I wasn't sure why.

"Not that I can remember sixty years later!" the man said, to general laughter.

Still...there was something important in what he'd said. I realised, belatedly, that this was what Simon had tried to communicate with me. My sense of a story was tingling. What else had the man said? "His brother," I said slowly. "They fought frequently?"

"Oh, aye," said another white-haired man. "At each other's throats. Cain and Abel, you know."

"Never did get on," Hedley said. "Or so I hear—Frank disappeared, what, fifty years ago?"

"Thereabouts. I always figured George ran him off. Not that Frank didn't deserve it. He wasn't the worst-tempered man I ever met, but that was only because I knew George."

Simon gave me another significant look, this one easy to interpret. Who would be angry a baby was named for George Robson, if not a brother he'd likely killed?

"How George Robson produced such a fine, upstanding brood I'll never know," said Hedley.

"Some flowers grow best in adversity," said some sanctimonious onlooker, to many nods. I myself had no doubt that Peter Robson would have been better served by a father who treated him well. For one thing, he wouldn't currently be haunted by the malicious ghost of his uncle.

This conversation degenerated into reminiscences of children who did their parents more credit than they deserved—or, indeed, quite a lot less. Simon and I politely sipped our pints and listened to them speak; this crowd was clearly eager for a new audience, and they had given us invaluable information, after all. Besides, I suspected Simon had ordered us a meal, and I proved to be correct: a short while later, a plump woman appeared with two plates each bearing a hot, savoury pie with a side of pease pudding, which I had been told was a local delicacy. "Here you go, gentlemen," she said. "I hear you're staying at the Blue Lodge?"

"Indeed we are, madam," I said. Simon, I noticed, had already tucked into his pie. Either he was very hungry, or he was feeling the strain of being sociable very heavily. I leaned towards the latter explanation.

"It'll be nice to have the place occupied at Christmas again," she said. "The old owner used to have the whole family round for it every year. You'd see the whole passel of them sledding on the hill on Christmas Eve if it was snowy enough."

"Oh, there's a sledding hill?" I said interestedly. I could practically feel Simon's glare as a physical presence against the back of my head, but I ignored him.

"Yes. It's up by the Lodge, in fact. Take the road into town, but turn left at the lane about a half mile along the way. It'll bring you there."

"Thank you very much, we may need to take a trip ourselves," I said.

"I'd pay to see that!" chortled Hedley.

I knew very well that Simon would do no such thing, but I didn't say so: it was my role to be the sociable one, after all. We ate our meal and listened to the flow of conversation. We bought a round for everyone, as thanks for the information, and made our departure as soon as politeness allowed.

* * *

In the morning, we set off again for the Robsons' cottage. Simon had again added to the Christmas decoration, in this case with holly boughs in addition to the berries, and I had taken a small sprig with several bright red berries for my buttonhole. Simon looked amused when he saw it, by which I mean his expression lightened from severe to merely neutral, but I appreciated it all the same.

As expected, the exorcism had done nothing permanent. There had been a respite in the haunting for some hours, just long enough for the family to relax before the wailing began again. Father John had agreed to let Simon and I try what we could, and then to conduct a second exorcism the next day. (His note had not said "as necessary", but I suppose he was not allowed to consider that anyone but a priest could banish a haunting.) Since Simon had read the runes again the night before, and managed to extract the location of Frank Robson's grave from the spirit, we felt we had every chance of success. When we arrived, the family seemed more resigned than afraid, and we even engaged in some small talk before Simon and I sat down to begin the interrogation. Like the landlady the evening before, the Robsons expressed happiness that the Blue Lodge would once again be occupied for Christmas this year, even if the occupants were two such solitary bachelors as Simon and myself. This led to a discussion of a local tradition called First Foot, in which it was desirable for a man to be the first to cross the threshold in the new year, particularly if said man was handsome and eligible. We were warned we might be pressed into service for the affair if we were still at the Lodge. Of course, I could not explain how unsuitable we'd be, if marriage was the goal.

But at last we had to turn to our sad business. We suggested the children be sent outside before our sad tale, and the Robsons spent some minutes dressing all the children but George for the weather and sending them out. Finally, Simon began to speak. "We believe that the ghost is unhappy that with the name you have given the baby."

"What's wrong with it?" Mr. Robson said, defensively.

"Nothing, to our ears, of course, Mr. Robson," I said. "I am sorry, this will not be easy to hear, but we suspect the ghost objects to anyone being named for your father."

Mrs. Robson did not look happy about this, but nor did she look surprised. I suppose it would not be a shock to have someone cling to the living world simply to be angry at a man, if that man was as foul-tempered as George Robson.

"Why would anyone object to that?" Mr. Robson said.

I looked at Simon. He looked back at me, his head slightly tilted, and then nodded: for all his stiff manners, he was better at breaking bad news than I. "I'm afraid that your father committed an act in his youth that you will not be proud of, Mr. Robson. You know he had a younger brother?"

"No," Mr. Robson said, frowning.

"You did not know of him?" I asked, startled.

"No. Only an elder brother, Frank, as far as I knew. Who was the younger one? What happened to him?"

"I see we have misunderstood," Simon said, with much more composure than I had managed. "We heard of Frank last night, but assumed he was the younger."

"No, that was my father's good-for-nothing brother. He disappeared when my father was twenty-two. Nobody in the family ever heard from him again."

The last piece of the puzzle was thus revealed to us. Not only would Frank Robson have been an irritation to George personally, but he would have inherited this cottage and its prosperity. It was not enough to divide between sons and leave enough for either to support a family on, for all it placed the Robsons in steady circumstances, so George would likely have been left on his own, to find a profession or a property of his own. I decided to leave this realisation unspoken, and I could see that Simon had come to the same conclusion. "Well, then. Your father's elder brother, Frank. He did not disappear. It seems that your father killed him."

Mrs. Robson gasped. Mr. Robson turned white. An angry murmur rose from the air around us.

"Frank is the one that has been haunting your home. He does not think your father deserves grandchildren named for him, Mr. Robson. But I am here to say that the dead do not have a say in the affairs of the living," Simon's voice was ringing out now, as loud as the haunting, "and that you, Frank Robson, have no place in this house any longer."

The murmur turned to horrid shrieking and a sound of intense wind, such that I hunched against a gale that did not truly exist.

"We need you to lead us to the big oak tree," Simon said. "And we'll need any shovels you have."

Mr. Robson nodded, although his wife looked puzzled. "This way," he said, shaking as the shrieking increased in volume. I looked out the front window as we put our layers of winter clothing back on and saw the children covering their ears. I had hoped the sound was limited to the house. Mrs. Robson went out to give some instruction to the children whilst Mr. Robson fetched the family's shovel, and then we set out.

The noise followed us, a never-ending shriek that increased and decreased in volume with no predictable pattern, filled with an angry murmur that sounded like threats just below the threshold of hearing. The sound was far more menacing than any real threat would have been, like a man talking to himself about all the terrible things he was going to do to you just before he did them. I comforted myself that the ghost had never shown a physical manifestation and walked on. I desperately wished to take Simon's hand, but could not in front of the Robsons, even though they were walking in front of us and distracted by the ghost; instead, I walked close enough to Simon that our arms brushed, and took what comfort I could from it. I was three years a ghost hunter at that point, but still had nowhere near Simon's thick skin.

At last we arrived at a massive gnarled oak, reigning over a small copse of trees some distance from the cottage. Simon immediately began walking in a circle around the oak. The angry murmur reached ear-splitting volume for no reason I could ascertain, and with a satisfied expression Simon began to dig. The sound when the shovel touched the snow was almost indescribable, a howl of animal rage that sounded like a combination of every beast from a medieval bestiary, combined into one long roar of frustrated rage. Simon did not seem bothered.

The snow layer was thinner here, with the oak and the other trees catching much of the fall, so before long Simon had dug through snow to bare earth, and then deeper. At last, Simon bent down and, with triumph, held up what was almost certainly a human shinbone. Mr. Robson made a noise as one who has been wounded, and Mrs. Robson put her arm around him in support. I thought I had been used to the sound, but it multiplied somehow, seeming to come from every direction around us. Simon continued to ignore it. He did not need to resort to the Saaamaaa Ritual, or any of the other arcane spells one used against the foulest creatures of the World Beneath the World; this was a simple banishing spell, anchored to the bone of the body that had once housed the spirit. I wondered what the ghost had thought Simon would do with the location of its grave. A marker, perhaps. Knowing Simon, he would see that done as well. The banishing did not send the ghost screaming beyond the outer darkness as Dr. Berry's foul methods would have done; instead, it merely removed it from this world, to go where it might in the next. Simon spoke the words.

All at once, the sound ceased. My ears rang, unused to the silence, and Mrs. Robson stood taller as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, though Mr. Robson, I noticed, still looked weighed down by his recently and painfully gained knowledge.

"He is gone," Simon said gravely.

Mr. Robson put his face in his hands.

Silently, I stepped forward. Simon placed the bone back in the grave with care, and I took the shovel and helped push the earth back in. Simon could easily have done it, but I wanted to leave the Robsons as alone as they could be without abandoning us to find our way back to the cottage on our own. I went slowly enough that we heard the faint sounds of conversation behind us before we turned around. Mr. Robson had put himself back together, at least enough to nod at us and offer his thanks.

The walk back to the cottage was a silent one, but I did not mind.

* * *

We departed the Robsons after refusing any payment but accepting a packet of fruitcake and the offer of a hot meal on Christmas. Teddy would bring a hamper to us around suppertime on the day. This had taken some negotiation, as the Robsons did not wish us to dine alone and already expected an extra guest in Father John. But at last we convinced them that it would be our preference, as two bachelors not used to a rowdy family dinner. Simon might have accepted, but I had dined enough with him to know that his presence would likely be a damper on the mood of any happy family gathering, even if he had not so recently revealed that Mr. Robson's father was a fratricide. I should say that Simon was not a damper on the mood because he himself was unhappy or felt that merriment was inappropriate, merely that a lifetime of pain and then solitude had accustomed him to silence and gravity, which was oppressive to those who could not read contentment in his severe face. I felt perfectly free to make merry with Simon, and often did, in our own way.

"It seems provident that we were here for this haunting," I said then, as we walked down the snowy lane. The Robsons had informed us that there was another path that would add only ten minutes' walk to our journey, and was different scenery, so we had followed their directions. I thought we were close as the crow flies to our original path, but the ground was hilly enough that we might as well have been miles away.

"Perhaps there are many such hauntings, and we would have found something no matter where we travelled."

This was a gloomy thought. "I can't think so," I said, "or your services would be in even larger demand than they are."

"Hmm. Perhaps. And perhaps we will now have a relaxing holiday. If it remains snowy I might even let you take me to this sledding hill."

"I would be delighted."

"I have not known you to have so much Christmas spirit in the past," Simon said. "Have I been suppressing you in some way?"

"No, not at all," I said, surprised. "I always celebrate a little in my own way. Not as much since I stopped attending church, of course. I don't know, Simon. Perhaps it's the snow? It's so rarely on the ground at Christmas. I feel a little like we're in a Dickens story."

"Was Frank Robson the ghost of Christmas past, then?"

I must have made a face at this, for Simon's expression lightened. "Let us hope not," I said, "for one, because I don't need any more ghosts this year, let alone two. And for another, because no man would meet you and think you uncharitable or unkind, let alone so lost to goodness that you needed three nights' lessons to correct you! Oh—and for a third, the very idea that Frank Robson would make anyone _more_ inclined to celebrate Christmas. What a horrid pair, and I hope Peter Robson is well free of them. I had no idea you had read A Christmas Carol," I added.

"Oh, many years ago. And of course it is nothing like true visitations," Simon said, with the casualness of a man to whom the events of A Christmas Carol would seem about as frightening in comparison to his life as Mary Had a Little Lamb did to me. "But it was pleasant enough, I suppose. I am not a particular fan of Dickens, but at least it was short."

"He does ramble on at times," I agreed, "though I retain a fondness for Great Expectations."

Simon did not ask me why, but then that was not his way. "We now have an excess of fruitcake, and a hot meal for Christmas," he said. "What other traditions need we observe, if you are in this mood? Do you sing carols?"

"Not well," I said. Then, curiously: "Can you sing, Simon? I have never asked you much about your education, outside the occult." He could obviously read, and kept his own account books, but I also knew of the odd lacunae in his knowledge, that I so often filled for him. This was in the years before he told me the truth of Karswell and his upbringing, but I already had enough experience of him to know that his childhood must not have been normal in any of the ways I understood it.

"I think it was more or less complete, at least in the basics," Simon said. I thought this did rather more to highlight its incompleteness than to obscure it, since he seemed apparently unaware that there were many things he ought to have known and did not, such as the list of the Kings and Queens of England, which he had proved not to know earlier in the year. "We did not lean overmuch on the arts. Theodosia had a drawing-tutor for a few months, I think for appearances' sake. I do know how to keep a tone in a chant, of course, as that can be important in rituals."

"Of course," I said, with a smile.

"Are there any other traditions we ought to observe? I would like you to be happy, Robert."

"As I would like you to be," I said. "No, not many. It is lucky that I like fruitcake. I believe we have the makings of eggnog in the kitchen and if not I can request it of the cleaning woman tomorrow. And of course you may continue adding to the decoration in the sitting room," I added.

Simon looked at me quite blankly. "Adding to the decoration?"

"Yes," I said. "There is no need to play innocent, I found the holly amusing. As you should know. You didn't seem embarrassed this morning when you saw it."

"I am not embarrassed," said Simon. "I have not added any decorations to the house."

"But—" I stopped. "The pinecones and the holly? The ivy? That wasn't you?"

Simon's face took on an angry cast. "No. Nor was it you." He did not need to ask; he knew the answer already from my questions. I was sure we were both thinking the same thing: who had come in, and what had they seen? We had not been cautious, in so remote a location with no expected visitors.

Without consultation, we both quickened our pace, heading for the Lodge.

* * *

When we reached the hunting box, we found that the decoration on the mantel had again grown more holly and ivy. Simon and I exchanged a glance, but did not disturb the silence with speech. I grasped a poker from the fire and headed for the first floor, whilst Simon headed towards the kitchen bare-handed: he needed no weapons.

I checked the various rooms, and saw no signs of disturbance. I left our chosen bedroom for last, as I did not like to think of an intruder there, but eventually it was all that remained. Something seemed strange when I walked in, and after a moment, I realised the looking-glass in the room was fogged over. It had not done that before, no matter how cold it became. As I stared, I saw a trace of movement, and I realised that words were appearing in the fog as if traced by a finger.

MERRY CHRISTMAS  
MERRY CHRISTMAS  
MERRY CHRISTMAS

" _Simon!!_ "

After a brief sound of pounding footsteps, Simon appeared in the door, wild-eyed. I gestured at the mirror and he went completely still for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, he left.

I followed him, of course, and he went into the next bedroom, where the mirror was not fogged. He was stripping the clothing from his upper body even as I entered the room. His skin displayed the same message in the mirror: MERRY CHRISTMAS, repeated over and over and over.

"I cannot tell if that is supposed to be menacing," I said, when nothing else happened besides the message.

SORRY began to appear among the greetings. I stared: I had never seen the words on Simon's skin respond to anything I had said.

Simon frowned at his own image. "I am not sure what to make of this," he said.

"It is definitely a ghost."

"Yes," Simon said.

"Could it really just be wishing us a happy Christmas?"

Simon considered this. Then he said, "The man who used to live here. Everyone has told us how much he loved Christmas."

"That is true," I said. "Perhaps...he is the ghost? And is merely happy to observe us celebrating the holiday?"

"Regardless of who it is, it's strong," Simon said. "Those plants on the mantel...the ghost must have a physical presence that is able to extend outside the house. I cannot like it."

"Remember the ghost at Elphill Abbey?" I said. "That was physical, but not harmful. It alerted us to the presence of Dr. Berry's coin."

"That is true," Simon said, then lapsed into pensive silence.

"I have a suggestion," I said. Simon met my eyes in the mirror and waited. "Let us carry on as if nothing is wrong. If the ghost means us harm, you can banish it then, can you not? And if it does not, then there is no harm in it being here."

"I do not like the feeling of being watched," Simon said.

"Yes, I admit, that is off-putting. Especially given some of the things I would like to do to you," I said, to watch Simon's expression when I did so. "Please, Mr. Ghost, we would like some privacy here on our holidays. We don't mind if you stay, but if you could just...not pay attention to us whilst we are here? We will hold a Christmas feast on the day, which you are perfectly welcome to join," I extemporised, ignoring Simon's frown, "but otherwise, if you can, please turn your attention elsewhere. You don't need to respond to me," I said hastily, worried I'd see another conversation on Simon's skin, and not wanting to go down that path in any fashion. "I will take it you have understood."

"You have no way of checking," Simon said.

"Simon, my dear, you've banished a ghost already today, and we've had ghosts far more involved in our intimate affairs than this. If he watches, he watches."

"Not just the bedroom activities," Simon said.

"I am similarly unconcerned about those. My preference is that you do not watch, please!" I said to the air. "But I acknowledge that if you do, I have no way of ascertaining that."

Simon groaned. "Robert, please be more firm than that."

"All right!" I said. "Simon has ways of detecting ghosts. I can't imagine they're comfortable for the ghost in question. We would appreciate it if you would remain in unoccupied portions of the house, except for the Christmas meal, which, of course, you are very welcome to attend."

The mad scrawl of "MERRY CHRISTMAS" on his skin faded to a much more sedate pace. I decided to take it as acceptance of our request.

"If there is a third ghost after all," I said, "I feel I shall have to summon Mr. Dickens' ghost and read him a lecture."

"If there is a third ghost, we are leaving," Simon said. "I do not like you being in danger, Robert."

"I don't feel in danger, Simon. In fact, I have not felt in danger at any point on this holiday, even when that terrible Frank Robson was shrieking at us."

Simon considered this. "I feel the same," he said after a long moment. "I suppose I shall leave the ghost to his own devices, then."

Since I already had Simon shirtless, and we had need of making both beds look occupied when the housekeeper came by the next day, I made very good use of the next hour. I do not know if the ghost watched, but if he did, he was silent.

* * *

We held a Christmas dinner for our bachelor selves. I brought some of the holly and ivy into the dining room for decoration, humming the song to myself as I did so. Teddy brought us a hamper at the prescribed time, and we laid out the meal and opened a bottle of wine. I poured a spare glass for an empty seat at the table, and we toasted it before we began to eat; I do not know if the ghost joined us, but at least it did not appear to drink the wine or make it disappear in any way.

Nothing more eventful had occurred since we spoke to the ghost, and I was beginning to feel myself truly relaxed, or perhaps bored. I had brought paper with me, and it was, in fact, on this holiday that I would begin setting pen to paper on the second Casebook. At the time, though, I had been enjoying long walks with Simon, including a walk to the sledding hill that sadly did not result in us doing any sledding ourselves, and reading both the books I had brought with me and the volumes in the hunting box's library, and spending time with Simon. Simon seemed to be sleeping a deal more than he did ordinarily, and also reading and walking and spending time with me. I will say we had been making good use of our hours of isolated leisure; the issue at home was never privacy but time, and here we had that in plenty.

We tucked into our meals. The ever-present pease pudding was growing on me, although I felt no need to seek the receipt from Mrs. Robson to take back to London with us. The meat was well-cooked, the vegetables well-seasoned, and the gravy thick and savoury.

"I am glad the Robsons harbour us no ill will," I said, having tasted the plenty before us. "It cannot be comfortable to have such a story revealed, even if it is not the fault of those who do the revealing."

"They are good people." Simon observed me. "And I think, Robert, that anyone would have a hard time holding a grudge against you, for you are so good-natured and willing to be kind."

"There are those who do. I have my journalism career as proof." I still felt resentment about this, and to some extent still do, although I have been as satisfied as any man may expect himself to be with the life Simon and I have made with each other. Still, even then, most of the poison had been drawn from the wound, and Simon treated the topic as lightly as had I.

"Indeed, that grudge against you is more than enough proof of that gentleman's evil nature."

"Still, it is nice to make friends when we are working, and not only enemies, or people who are afraid of us."

"That is true."

We lapsed into the kind of silence that falls between men who are comfortable with each other, and are faced with a delicious meal and do not wish to spend overmuch time speaking. At length we finished. We toasted the empty seat again, and took the eggnog I had successfully made and the last of the fruitcake into the sitting room. The fire was high and warm, but we sat under a blanket together regardless, and Simon put his arm around me. I was as content as I could be.

We are not given to lavish gift-giving, none of the little lovers' tokens that many of my friends exchanged with their paramours; our love is a practical thing, interwoven in our daily lives, as natural to our companionship as a daily shave or a meal. I have often been glad of this character, and our mutual desire for this sort of relationship is one of the foundations upon which our lives are built. We do, however, have a tradition of giving each other one gift each at Christmas. After a few minutes of companionable silence and short kisses not leading anywhere, I handed Simon's to him and received mine in return.

My gift to Simon was wrapped in a scrap of shiny paper. Simon's to me was plainer: a simple wooden box, which would be useful for storage regardless of what was inside, without even a ribbon to adorn it. He gestured for me to go first, and I opened the box at the catch. It contained a De La Rue fountain pen, finely made, and certainly less likely to blot or clog than the cheaper pen I was currently using. We were not poor, though we were also not wealthy, and I could have bought one myself, but as Simon well knew, after a lifetime of scraping by and moving frequently I was disinclined to be rid of my possessions before they wore out, and I had not yet reached the level of annoyance where I would have been willing to buy myself a new pen. This would do very well indeed, and save me some frustration that I would not have saved myself. "Thank you," I said, deeply touched at his consideration. I leaned up for a kiss and received one of his rare smiles as I settled back into his embrace.

Simon's arm tightened around my shoulders as he ripped into the paper I'd wrapped around his gift. It was nothing so practical, but, I hoped, still understood as heartfelt. Inside was a small hinged metal frame, and inside that, a photograph of myself on one side and Miss Kay on another. We had seen a frame like this on one of our outings earlier in the year, and Simon had expressed his appreciation of the item; he was not given to sentimentality, and yet I thought I saw something there, that he would like reminders of us even when our business took us elsewhere, as it sometimes did on those early years. It had been difficult to convince Miss Kay to sit for a portrait photograph, but in the end she had agreed as long as I was able to convince Simon to do the same once he had seen the gift. I thought it best not to mention that promise at this time.

Simon stared at the photographs for a long moment. "Thank you, Robert," he said. He brushed his fingertips along the edge of the frame. He had more than enough mementos of us, and all of my writings to remind him of what we felt for one another, for all I hid it as best I could for publication. But words were not Simon's gift, and I thought the portraits would be easier for him to hold to, when he needed that reminder.

"You are very welcome," I said. "Miss Kay says it will be an interesting thing, to watch how her face changes relative to this photograph in the years to come. I made a jest about the Portrait of Dorian Gray, but I do not think she understood the reference."

Simon nodded. "I doubt she would." He closed the hinged frame carefully and set it on the table, and then took the pen box from my hands and did the same with it, and then kissed me quite thoroughly.

We ended up tangled rather more closely than before, though still fully clothed and with hands above the waist: I did not think it appropriate to engage in anything more strenuous on our host-in-absentia's sitting room furniture, and Simon was willing to indulge me in this. I ran my fingers through his hair. "I like it up here, with you," I said, in warm contentment.

Simon nodded gravely. "I am very glad we came," he said. "Although I also like Christmas with you at home."

"As do I," I said. "The company is by far the most important part."

"And at least Fetter Lane is not haunted."

I laughed and settled the blanket around us more closely. "Indeed. So next year we will stay home."

"I would like that," Simon said.

"Of course," I said, smiling up at him. My beloved man, so used to his habits. "Merry Christmas, Simon."

"Merry Christmas, Robert," he said in his deep voice, and we watched the fire and each other until we retired together to bed.


End file.
